


A Stranger in Calder Valley

by TessMooreXF



Category: Happy Valley (TV), The Fall (TV 2013)
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2020-07-24 00:27:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20017255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TessMooreXF/pseuds/TessMooreXF
Summary: An intense game of murder, sex and professional danger in West Yorkshire. Takes place in the "All My Trials" universe, 5 years after Stella and Tanya said goodbye to Paul Spector. The Fall/Happy Valley Crossover.





	1. Chapter 1

It's supernaturally difficult to run a crime scene in early winter. The West Yorkshire fog is a majestic fixture of the landscape, blanket-like and hanging into every low crevice. It's melancholy, yet peaceful and atmospheric. This particular morning, it's absolutely destroying Catherine Cawood's life. It's not even a week into aforementioned early winter, and there's a solid two inches of wet, heavy snow on the ground. Her John Doe is already covered in the stuff, his face sunken inches into the mud slick of a rural farm ditch on the side of the road. His injuries are the appalling typical of top-tier drug and gang hits. A strong sense of urgency rises in Catherine's chest and she purses her lips in an effort to hold in an impending outburst.

10 am has come and gone and the fucking fog hasn't moved an inch. In adherence to departmental policy, the rural road is closed while her useless team of haz-suited photographers and forensic scientists twiddle their thumbs. Watching them do precisely nothing is the long line of morning travelers parked helplessly behind the road block headed East. She'd like to feel sorry for them, but their honking and insults make her feel just a little worse about the state of humanity. For a split second, Catherine wonders if she should invite the lot of them to come and survey the poor bloke missing his hands and half his head down the ditch. Then again, she isn't sure it would change them one bit. 

The poor bastard's suit is expensive, his watch still attached, his loafers brand new with an Italian label. Of course, they can't turn him over yet on account of the fog and snow, but Catherine is sure he's a handsome man. She turns to catch Ann Gallagher's eye. She's sweating after hours in her haz-suit, and her eyes are frustrated, but she comes over at the look Catherine throws her. "These people are going to gun us down in the street if she don't cut them loose," Ann nods to the dozen or so honking vehicles. 

Catherine chuffs. "I wouldn't put it past them." She points to the body in the ditch. The snow is finally beginning to melt, and she can see the bullet holes rained across his back. "This seems wrong, doesn't it? It's almost like a joke or something?" 

Ann nods. "Sort of like they threw everything but the kitchen sink at him." 

"Tell Shaf to turn the traffic around and call the city for a detour. We're going to be here a while on." Catherine sighs. "And, while he's at it, have him call the boss. I don't feel good about this one."

Ann turns and leaves her with purpose, always eager to be given something to do. Catherine rips the hood of her haz suit off her head and glories in the cool air streaming down her neck. The entire backside of her suit is an inferno and her stomach roils after her morning thyroid and hormone pills gone down with no food. _It's a bleedin' joy getting older, _her maudlin inner voice cheekily whines. She wonders if Claire might pick up some ice packs from the corner shop this afternoon, as she's been similarly inflicted. Catherine feels grateful for her partner in misery. This is really what sisterhood is for, because nothing feels more bonkers than a hot flash come along when she already feels like she might legitimately have reason to rip someone's head off. All any doctor can tell her is that it's normal for one in her own predicament to feel bouts of irrational rage, but it isn't exactly conducive to the brand of non-hysterical, unthreatening police work expected of female officers.__

__Catherine feels her cell phone vibrating in the outer pouch attached to the chest piece of the suit. She figures she won't be using her gloves anytime soon and abandons them in favor of answering. "Yes?" She snipes into the phone._ _

__"Catherine, it's Maureen down at the school." The voice on the other end of the line is regretful, but sweet. It's a voice Catherine hears far more often than she'd like._ _

__Catherine shakes her head in frustration. "What's he done, Maureen?"_ _

__"I'm sorry to bother you, but he's not been in at all yet this morning. Is he ill?"_ _

__"No." Catherine's become quite proficient at giving the short answer, having learned the hard way that pouring her heart out to any and all manages only to bring out in them a strange kind of pity. Ryan's just turned 14, and the only thing that's changed is his proficiency in hurtful behavior. He's quite smart, and he's gotten much bigger. He's therefore acutely aware of how to hurt his Granny, and he seems almost to take joy in the task. Most days, he doesn't bother with her and she's glad for it -- as far as Catherine is concerned, he is who he is and she won't be changing him anytime. Five years ago, she wouldn't have dared to think her fears about him would continue to linger and grow with each passing day. That she would feel so ineffectual._ _

__"I've marked him absent for the day," Maureen prattles on. "I don't really have the authority to say, Catherine, but without extenuating circumstances, the school expels after 9 absences in a semester. Being this is Ryan's ninth absence, you should be prepared for a call and meeting with Headmaster Flaherty."_ _

__"Dandy." Catherine closes her eyes for a moment and sighs. "I know you're only the messenger, Maureen. Thank you for the warning."_ _

__While Maureen urges Catherine to take care, Shaf walks towards her in emerging sunlight. It's fitting that the fog should lift a bit while Catherine's personal life falls apart just a little further. The forensic and photography team leave their idle conversations and begin what work they can._ _

__"Boss, the wallet is still on the body." Shaf brandishes a fine leather wallet in his gloved hand. Catherine replaces her own gloves and receives the wallet form him, anxious to find an ID. She was right -- the man was quite handsome. London address._ _


	2. Chapter 2

The neighborhood is well-lit, with lovely brownstones and small yards lining the street. Tanya can practically smell the old money wafting about while she walks by the darkened windows. It's obviously a family-friendly area, with play things scattered across the tiny, well-manicured lawns. Tanya likes it, but it feels quite out of place for Stella Gibson. Her last flat had been quite urban; a sterile, modern corner flat with a city view at least a 30 minute drive from this neighborhood.

Tanya grimaces when her heel catches on a large crack in the sidewalk. _All that tax money probably keeps the police busy sweeping nails and glass from the sidewalks, _Tanya thinks to herself. She decides to chance it and slips her shoes off. The cool pavement is delightful against her overworked arches. It'd been more of a walk from the pub than Tanya had anticipated. She'd also gotten a little more buzzed than she'd anticipated. It was her own personal ritual, knocking back a few before re-entering Stella's world. It's been almost two years, and their longest stretch without seeing each other. Stella likes it when it's a surprise (not really, since Tanya always has to call and make sure of her address, and that she'll be there). Tanya amuses her by showing up unannounced in the middle of the night, dropping wearily but gratefully into Stella's ready bed to chatter and fool around in the dark. The heavy stuff always waits until daylight.__

By most anyone's standards, it's a strange arrangement, but it suits them nicely. Some distance was needed after Paul Spector virtually ruined them all. Tanya's life in Belfast was decided to be non-negotiable with growing children. She and Stella made a deal with each other: They would try again after the girls were out of the house. Meanwhile, her ex-husband likes to bring up "The London Cunt" every time he breezes by, reminding Tanya why she divorced him. He had the nerve to tell her mother she left him for another woman, and her Croyden-raised, conservative mother hasn't spoken to her a second since, but still bothers to send passive aggressive birthday cards to the girls.

The Met was equally non-negotiable for Stella, so she went on her way back to London and an increasingly disapproving group of colleagues. It's a miracle she's still a DSI, considering the contempt and anger surrounding her. Their eccentric night visits were born quite organically out of necessity, but Tanya has to admit to herself that she counts the days before she can shed her life and start over. She's in London for a dull conference, affording her the much-needed opportunity to drink as she pleases and make contact with perhaps the only person who understands. 

The porch meeting Tanya at the address she'd been given is dark and mostly bare. The outline of a single potted plant, mostly dead, can be seen by the door. _Terrible place to hide a key, DSI Gibson, _Tanya laughs to herself. She can't see a damn thing, and the walkway and porch are significantly more dangerous to her bare feet than the sidewalk had been. "Fuck!" Tanya whisper-screams when her big toe rams into a decorative stone.__

The inside of the house isn't much more interesting or well-tended than the porch. It's mostly unfinished, sparse furniture and boxes strewn about. Stella hadn't mentioned that she's still in the process of moving in. Tanya suddenly feels like an intruder. There are clothes and towels strewn about the tops of the boxes and the glass cupboards in the kitchen are still empty. She can't have been moved in for more than a few days, surely. Everything on the ground level is dark, so Tanya shows herself upstairs. It's still irritatingly dark, but the thick carpet is sweet below her feet. 

At the top of the landing, Tanya can see a dim orange light streaming from the Master bedroom. It isn't like Stella to wait up for her, and it's well past 1am. The room is silent as Tanya approaches. The door is open wide and the bed is situated directly in the center of the room, so Tanya is immediately treated to the view of Stella perched in her peach silk robe atop a perfectly-coiffed bed. It's the only thing in the house that looks 'done'. In fact, the bedroom looks complete and lived in; well-loved, even. Seeing Stella draws the breath from Tanya's chest. She takes in the gray streaks snuck into her part-time lover's shorter hair and the tiredness in her eyes, and her effortless elegance. Four fingers of scotch sit untouched on the night stand and Stella's reading what looks to be an official coroner's report. She does smile wanly when she lays her eyes on Tanya, though. Her pupils dilate and her face softens. "Look at you", her voice is rough, like she hasn't spoken in days.

Tanya has to admit to herself that the last two years have been less than kind on her, and she isn't naïve enough to think it doesn't show. She knows it'll sound goofy, but she says it anyway. "I'm so glad to be here."

Stella nods in agreement and pats the bed beside her. Tanya's quick to drop her bag and her slacks, but she doesn't bother with pulling up the duvet cover. The cool air in the room feels divine on her bare legs.

She can't help but press Stella. "Nice place." 

Stella chuckles and grabs her scotch for a quick sip. She holds it up to Tanya, but she gestures 'no'. "I honestly despise it. I moved in three months ago, and I'm sure you noticed what it looks like downstairs. It's what it looked like the week I moved in, if you're wondering." 

"I thought it didn't really look like 'you'. What's the story?" 

The sadness in Stella's face intensifies. "It's my mother's. She passed." Tanya's horror is evident on her face, and she moves in for a long hug, which Stella doesn't turn away from. Instead, she whispers into Tanya's neck. "No, please don't apologize. My mother was an alcoholic. If I'm honest, I'm a little surprised she made it as long as she did." 

"Still, I'm so sorry." Tanya pulls away and searches out Stella's eyes. "Why didn't you tell me? I would have come right away." 

"I'm wasn't really in a good place with her the last time we spoke. Truthfully, I've been feeling a little ashamed about it." 

Tanya nods her understanding. She knows a little something about dysfunctional families. "Maybe this is rude, but I don't mean it to be. Why didn't you just list it?" 

Stella smiles sweetly and turns to face Tanya. "I wanted to see if you might like it. It seemed like a good opportunity, for later. I just absolutely hate it and have to change everything, and I got overwhelmed." 

"Yes." Tanya smiles cheekily and lays a hand on Stella's thigh. "Yes, I will move in with you in two years." 

Stella pushes the Coroner's report she'd been reading towards Tanya. "I have another question to ask you." 

Tanya skims the report. It's very violent. 'What is this?" 

"Would you be able to accompany me to West Yorkshire? I need to identify a body and lend any help I can." 

"This sounds like a drugs hit. Who are you identifying?" The report is strange and intriguing. The body was shot multiple times in the head and torso, but that was done after he was beaten and his hands were cut off. Hands are often removed to make identification more difficult, but in this case the hands were thrown in the ditch with the body. 

Stella pauses and sighs, pained. "Jeremy Clarkson."

"Your boss?" Tanya is taken aback. Her stomach drops and she feels like the air's been forced from her lungs. "Jesus, Stella. What do they think he was doing there?" 

"The request only just made its way to me today, so they haven't done much work on it. They don't know anything. His wife and daughter are also missing and haven't been seen in nearly a week." 

"Fuck." Tanya leans against the headboard and closes her eyes. "Of course I'll come with you." 

Stella nods her thanks. "Are you planning on sleeping much tonight?" 

"Not now. Let's get going."


	3. Chapter 3

"Richard's been at mine again." Catherine can't help her nose wrinkling in frustration while she bats her ashes into the miserable new smoking pot outside the nick. According to the upstairs, the litter's gotten to be a bit much. Never mind that the building is about to crumble and pitch itself to the fiery depths; put itself out of its own misery. _But mind the butts!_ Catherine almost chuckles aloud. 

Ann exhales into the chilly morning, a cloud swirling around her knowing smile and half-raised brows. "Stayed the night?" 

"Mmm Hmm." Catherine smiles herself. "Wouldn't tell me what the disturbance was this time. Stayed rather happily on the couch." 

"He realises his wife is no idiot, yes?" Ann aggressively beats the remainder of her cigarette into the too-small hole of the smoking pot and leans back into the elderly bricks a ways behind her. The sun is barely up and it looks like it's going to fucking snow again. They're both gluttons for punishment, having volunteered for first light patrol on overtime. Turns out, no one particularly wants to be a police officer. The station has been short for months. Once the night crew specials roll up, it'll be morning reports and off they go.

Catherine disposes of her own butt and joins Ann in holding up the wall. "I do believe he knows he's the only numpty in the relationship."

The two women sit in silence for a couple beats, but truth be told, Catherine's life is weighing upon her mind. "Y'know, Ryan's been staying out nights at a time the late? Lord knows Richard never gave a toss either way when Ryan was younger, but now he's on and on about him. Gave him quite the lecture the other night about how 'we have to take care of our grannies'. It were damn embarrassing. You should have seen -- I think Ryan's eyes near touched his brain he rolled them so hard." Catherine laughs, but it's a mirthless one. 

Ann looks unsure. "Do you... worry about Ryan?" 

"Every damn day." Catherine's shoulders slump a bit. "He'll be expelled from school later today, did I tell you? There's a hearing scheduled. Of course, Richard is busy. All that money spent on a private school hoping someone could turn him halfway decent, and fuck-all. The thing is, it's not really about the money. It's that he'll be out on the street now, and how long can he really be on the street before he morphs into Tommy Lee Jr.? How long before he's just another tosser and I'm praying night and day he doesn't rape some girl or kill some kid, or sell drugs? He's his father's son, after all."

"Catherine..." Ann's brows knit. "Don't think that way."

"How can I stop? I know it makes people fucking uncomfortable, but I can't shake it. I've known for years what he might be, and so has everyone else. They just don't have the guts to say it." 

Catherine catches her breath while Ann says nothing. "I'm almost glad he's not been coming home, because I'm exhausted of him. Does that make me an awful person?" 

Ann shakes her head no, but she looks concerned, bordering on disturbed. The two women again fall into a companionable silence, watching the meager traffic flow. The specials are running late, and Catherine's of half a mind to go in for more coffee. The silence is broken by a very average silver sedan pulling up to the curb. It's plain to see that the occupants are two women, and they're quick to exit the vehicle. The driver is a blonde slip of a thing in expensive knit-wear, perhaps a stone's-throw younger than Catherine. Her passenger appears to be an Indian or Pakistani woman with lovely skin, hair slicked back, wearing jeans and a black leather bomber. She appears a bit younger. Both women, though, appear exhausted and both approach Catherine and Ann with an air of authority. 

"I'm Detective Superintendent Gibson of the Metropolitan Police," the blonde says. "This is Professor Reed-Smith, Pathologist. I've been asked to identify Jeremy Clarkson's body. I was told the unit here can point us in the right direction." 

The poor handsome bloke with the misplaced hands. Catherine can still see it. That had been such a shit morning. "Of course, Detective Superintendent. I'm Sergeant Catherine Cawood; This is one of my PCs, Ann Gallagher. We'll need to get you in touch with HMIT. They can come by with an escort. In the meantime, let's get you some coffee." 

Stella smiles at Catherine's friendliness. "Thanks. We're in need." 

Catherine nods, gesturing toward the door. "You've come to the right place. We don't suffer fools who like weak coffee at this nick." She turns to Ann and smiles. "Ann, can you please let Commander Taylor know DS Gibson is here? Also, we'll be needing some extra PCs in for patrol today. They'll be grumbling, but I have a feeling it's going to be a busy one."


End file.
